


Patrolling Draenor

by systrami



Series: Why The Hell Would You Put a Troll In Charge? [1]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Crack-ish, Drabble Collection, F/M, Frostwall Garrison, Gen, Humor, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Character Death, Some angst, World of Warcraft: Warlords of Draenor, it's war ya'll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-20 21:26:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 11,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15542481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/systrami/pseuds/systrami
Summary: A series of interconnected oneshots/drabbles featuring life at the Frostwall Garrison. Various characters, lengths and ratings.





	1. The Commander's OTP

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost from my account at FFN.
> 
> Obligatory disclaimer: I do not make any money from this. All characters are the property of their respective copyright holders.

”Again? We only returned from a scouting mission yesterday!” Aeda Brightdawn narrowed her eyes at the orc opposite her, flipping her golden hair over her shoulder. The brown orc at her side nodded his agreement.

 Warmaster Zog was used to people complaining – he’d been a general for years, for fel’s sake! The orcs as a race were known for their strength and viciousness in battle, but luckily few of their enemies knew how incredibly _lazy_ most of his kin were. This was an entirely different matter though. The blood elf was correct in assuming their week-long mission deserved at least a _few_ days’ rest. Regrettably, their commander had quite a different opinion, and in Zog’s eyes, not a very good reason for it.

“The Commander, eh, commands it!” Oh, very eloquently put Zog, now she’ll definitely not think you’re stupid. He puffed up his chest and continued: “The Warsong clan has not been disrupting the trade routes for several days and we need to know what brought this change.”

“The Commander thinks they’re up to something?” Gronnstalker Rokash, standing half a step behind the annoyed blood elf woman, inquired.

Warmaster Zog blinked, that was an excellent reason! “Yes, that’s exactly what he thinks – but I should not need to explain his reasoning – you should simply follow orders,” he said, careful not to show his smirk at the slightly ashamed look on their faces.

“You are to go to Nagrand, make camp in the Spirit Woods – near the waterfalls – and keep an eye on the Warsong clan. Yala, in the tavern, has prepared your supplies. I expect you to leave before nightfall and not come back before you have something to report!”

Aeda’s face tightened for a second and she took a step back to avoid the spit flying out of the orc’s mouth. Her fists clenching, she unconsciously reached for her mana to begin casting a spell. Rokash, sensing her ire, quickly put his hand on her shoulder to calm her down.

“Yessir! We will begin preparations at once,” he replied, pulling the woman away. “Come on Aeda. 

The warlock nodded and smiled coldly at Warmaster Zog before walking out of the Town Hall with the orc hunter. Zog swallowed slightly – despite her small stature, the woman could look very menacing if she wanted to.

“I thought da Commandah made sure da Warsong wouldn’t bothah us anymore aftah da last time he went dere,” Shadow Hunter Ukambe questioned after the pair had left.

 Warmaster Zog sighed. Of course he had. While the Commander was an extremely capable shaman, he was also one of the silliest men Zog ever had the misfortune to meet. “He did,” he simply replied.

 “Sooo, why send dem ta Nagrand den?”

 Zog really didn’t want to answer that question. Answering that question would mean admitting it out loud.

 “Warmastah?” the Shadow Hunter prodded.

 The orc lowered his head, as if speaking to the floor. “He is sending them to the Spirit Woods because the view is pretty. The supplies they’re getting from Yala are a picnic. And the reason those two are going is because the Commander thinks they would look cute together.”  There, he said it.

 Zog chanced to look up when he heard a wheezing noise from the corner. Ukambe had erupted in hoarse laughter and was trying his best to contain it.

 “Ehehehehe, he’s right, mon! Dey _would_ look cute togethah! And jus’ imagine dere kids!” the troll was having trouble standing upright now, clutching his stomach with one hand and wiping his eyes with the other.

 The Warmaster sighed again and began walking out of the building, trying to leave the madness behind. Trolls – ferocious in battle, but never a serious moment! He had been so very proud when Saurfang had recommended him to handle the missions on Draenor, but now he was starting to wonder if the older orc had known that the senseless troll shaman would become Commander of the garrison when he turned down the offer. Sneaky old bastard. Zog turned to head to the Frostwall Tavern, because if there was something he’d learnt during his time with the dwarves in Ironforge, it was that there was no problem that mead couldn’t fix - even the visions of blond, mischievous warlock babies with tusks and fel-green eyes. He shuddered. Maybe he needed a stronger drink.

 


	2. Legacy

The air underground was musty with the dampness seeping through the walls of the mine. It was dark, except for the flickering lights of small lanterns spread out in the larger cavern. Lantresor had been furious when he arrived at the Frostwall Garrison to realize that they had lit _torches_ underground! He had – in not so gentle terms – explained to the Commander that the foreman was an idiot and it was just pure luck that no one had died of smoke poisoning yet.

Sweat was pouring down his brow as he hacked at a newly discovered vein of true iron. Before meeting the Commander and joining him, the half-orc had never been in Frostfire Ridge before, having spent his entire life in Nagrand. After arriving in the garrison, Lantresor had volunteered to run the mine, as he had been a skilled miner back in his clan. He enjoyed it at first – feeling useful and wanting to help the troll shaman that was one of the most accomplished fighters he’d ever met, but now, two months later, he was starting to regret his inital decision.

Every day, the green orc, Zog, would send out people on missions. Their job was to fight and bring glory to the armies of the commander and Lantresor couldn’t help but feel envious. His job was to supply ore to the forge – an honorable job all the same – but not the one he’d been training for his entire life.

A shadow passed on the wall in front of him and the half-orc spun around quickly, wielding the mining pick as a weapon in front of him.

“Hey mon, take it easeh!” the redhaired troll called out and jumped back, out of reach of the impromptu weapon.

Lantresor lowered the mining pick as he realized exactly whom he’d almost decapitated in pure reflex.

“Commander! I apologize for my behavior, sir,” he quickly spoke, attempting to wipe off the dirt and sweat with his arm, but only succeeding in smearing it all over his face.

The troll made a tsk-ing sound. “No need ta be so formal, mon. Ah told’ya ta call me Zenji!” He grinned and spread his arms, only to wince slightly and cradle his left arm.

“Are you injured? I heard you and a few of the soldiers were going to face the Iron Horde,” Lantresor tried not to sound too envious. They were going after Azuka Bladefury – _his nemesis_ – and he’d been left behind, like a common miner.

“Nah, not’ing bad. Da gates of Tanaan be open now – da worst is before us, Ah t’ink,” Zenji sighed and slumped his shoulders, suddenly looking like the old troll Lantresor knew he actually was. “Anyway, mon, Ah want’ya ta come to da Town Hall wit’ me. Somet’ing Ah need ta discuss wit’ya.”

The blademaster nodded and started following the shaman up through the dark and narrow mine shafts. As they exited the cave, he had expected to be met with a blinding light as the sun shone harshly on the white snow – but it was dark. He realized he’d been down in the mine longer than he’d intended – the garrison was mostly empty now, only a few people walking about. The Town Hall was mostly the same way, only two trolls – Shadow Hunters, Lantresor knew – and the green-skinned mission specialist were present.

They were huddled around something standing in the middle of the floor – he couldn’t see quite what it was, but as they realized they were no longer alone, the three men turned around.

“Ah know ya wanted ta come wit’ us ta face Bladefury, Lantresor. And Ah regret not bringing yah wit’ me. Dat woman was a damned good fightah. Could have needed a blademastah,” Commander Zenji said apologetically, but Lantresor was barely listening, staring intently on the item behind the two trolls and one orc.

“Is… is that…?” He couldn’t even say it out loud.

“Yah, mon. It’s her weapon, Zangetsu or somet’ing.”

“Sanketsu,” the blademaster corrected. He stepped up and lifted his arm, letting it hover over the hilt of the sword before he remembered himself. “So Azuka’s dead?”

“Yes, we were victorious,” Warmaster Zog was the one who answered him. “Hellscream fled, as the coward he is, into Tanaan Jungle and we must quickly establish a base of operations there if we’re ever to catch him.”

“And Ah want’ya ta come wit’ me, Lantresor.” The half-orc could barely believe his ears.

“But, the mine…” he started lamely before remembering his longing for battle and shut up.

“Heh, da mine will be fine wit’out’ya, mon. Ya ain’t a miner. You’re a warrior, and a warrior needs his sword,” he nodded towards the greatsword before them.  Lantresor didn’t need to be told twice. He grasped the hilt and in one fluid motion drew the massive sword into a defensive position. Despite its size, the blade felt completely natural in his hands – like an extension of himself.

“Heh, it took two of us ta carry it here. Heavy t’ing,” one of the Shadow Hunters confessed.

“Ah got dis from Bladefury as well,” the troll shaman opened his palm to reveal a small amulet, the color of amber. “Ah want’ya ta have it.” The blademaster took the offered trinket. He was surprised to feel warmth radiating from it.

“We be leaving for Tanaan as soon as we get a ship, so yah better be prepared ta leave anytime,” Zenji advised, suppressing a yawn. “But not tonight.” He turned to head to his sleeping quarters on the second floor, giving the half-orc a pat on the shoulder as he passed him.

“Thank you, Commander. I won’t let you down,” Lantresor said.

“Ah know yah won’t. And call me Zenji. Dere be no time for titles when da gates of Hellfire open.”

Lantresor of the Blade nodded. The Tanaan Jungle was filled with dangerous animals, and now also with felblood-infested members of the Iron Horde. He grasped Sanketsu in his right hand and the Blademaster’s Necklace in his left and grinned. He could barely wait.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW, these are not in chronological order.


	3. Garrison Patrol

It was a nice, crisp morning in Frostfire Ridge. After a blizzard that had lasted the past three days, it was nice to see the sun again, Zenji thought as he walked down to the forge. He was so grateful to see the sun again, he could even look past the fact that that when the light shone on the freshly-fallen snow, the effect was blinding and made his head pound. In hindsight, maybe he shouldn’t have let Morketh challenge him to a drinking game last night. Or bought another jug of Ironwine to celebrate his victory. Yet, nothing could ruin this morning. Nothing at all, except…

“Good morning, Commander!”

Damn.

The troll forced himself to turn around and greet the Forsaken woman with a gruff sound. Ulna Thresher decided to interpret that as a friendly greeting. She fell into step next to him, easily keeping up with his long strides.

“What are we doing today, Commander? The peons reported that some sort of creatures were coming up through that old mine shaft in the south,” she suggested, looking very eager. Well, as eager as someone can look while being dead, of course.

The shaman did not feel equipped with dealing with that right now. Especially not with an undead priestess shadowing his every step. “Maybeh,” he said. He knew this would not deter her from following him. He’d tried everything for the past two days and nothing seemed to work.

When he got back from Bladespire Citadel two days earlier, he had noticed something odd at the Western entrance – a piece of shoulder armor, seemingly too big for anyone currently living in the garrison. Before investigating any further, Ulna Thresher had walked by a few yards behind him. A little backup wouldn’t hurt, the troll had thought and had asked the priestess to accompany him. In the end, half a dozen Bladespire ogres had ambushed them and Ulna had ultimately saved the commander’s life with a well-timed Power Word: Shield. The ambushers had quickly been disposed of and all was well. Except now Ulna would not leave him alone.

She followed him all around the garrison – from dawn ‘til dusk. Always half a step behind him, and chattering happily about every imaginable topic the entire time. So far, Zenji had learned how to get tomato soup stains out of leather (“it’s _much_ harder to get out than blood”)and the names of every single neighbor she had had while living in Lordaeron (“we were a tight-knit community, before everyone started kill one another, of course”). The Forsaken had also told him of the time when she had met Arthas, before he became the Lich King (“bit of a dickhead, really”).

“We’ll go to da mine, den. Da sun is hurting my eyes,” Zenji muttered when he realized his headache would not relinquish its grip. Not that the priestess’ babbling was helping much either.

“Oh. I wouldn’t notice,” she said sheepishly. “But I like how the sunlight feels on my face. I almost feel alive again.” She smiled.

Only then did the troll take notice of the two leather straps that crossed her face and covered what he presumed were her empty eye sockets. He had always felt a little creeped out by the undead, but now some other feeling bubbled up inside him at the priestess’ comment. He sighed and rubbed his eyes.

“Ah changed my mind. Let’s go to da engineering works.” Zenji felt one of the corners of his mouth lift in a half-smile as he watched the Forsaken woman smile brightly at his suggestion. As they walked down the snowy path, Zenji made an effort to participate in the usually one-sided conversation even though his head kept throbbing every time he opened his eyes. Gouging his eyes out was perhaps a bit dramatic, he thought. Maybe Ulna would let him borrow some leather strips. Or the goblins would have a pair of goggles for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I once asked Ulna to "go on patrol" with me. And then she wouldn't leave me alone. Ever.


	4. Pathfinder

Draka was not sure what to make of the troll that apparently was the saviour of this and that back on his world. Here, he was a strong fighter and a just commander, sure, but sometimes she wondered if his mother had dropped him on the head as a baby. She suspected trolls were not the gentlest of creatures, even to its young.

Thrall swore he was the best man for the job, though. And she trusted _him_ completely. He was like a son to her and Durotan – and he had defeated the orc who had apparently travelled in time to start this war. The orc shaman had put his faith in Commander Zenji, and she would have to accept that. Looking at him now though, no one would suspect him of having defeated half of the clan leaders of the Iron Horde.

“Eh, soooo how do Ah steer dis t’ing?” Zenji asked the Frostwolf orc next to him. The troll was currently in the middle of Vol’mar Hold, sitting atop the back of a crimson rylak, holding the reins and looking very unsteady. “It has two heads, for Spirits’ sake!”

Pul Windcarver, the current expert on rylaks in the entire Frostwolf clan, sighed.

“You don’t steer with your hands, you steer with your legs and weight! Didn’t you learn this from your riding trainer back home?”

“Nah mon, Ah learnt ta ride on my Pa’s raptor. Fierce t’ing, dat one. You just had ta hold on and hope she was heading in da right direction,” Zenji replied with a toothy grin. “Dat’s da basics, ain’t it?”

“Well… yes. But I’ve trained this rylak especially for you. You’ve conquered most of the ground, Commander – but now it’s time to take to the skies!” Pul took a step back, allowing the rylak to spread its wings.

Draka was suddenly apprehensive. It would be _very_ bad if the commander died from a ten feet fall from his mount before they even confronted Gul’dan. “Don’t fall off, Commander.”

“Heh, Ah have nevah fallen off my mount. At least not in da air!” Zenji smirked and lowered the rose tinted goblin goggles from the top of his head. He gripped the reins tighter and the rylak screeched. It flapped its wings once, twice and rose steadily from the ground. The rider and mount flew a couple of laps around the small hold of Vol’mar, going faster each lap.

“See, no problem!” the troll shouted to his spectators on the ground and steered the rylak towards the Corrupted Refuge.

Draka startled. Surely he must see the copse of trees in front of him?

“Commander! _Watch out for that…_ ”

A large crack pierced the air as the branch they had collided with broke and both rylak and troll crashed to the ground.

“…tree,” Draka finished lamely.

“Ah’m okay!” the muffled cry came from the crash site, followed by a string of curses.

“Well…” she said. “At least he didn’t fall off his mount.”


	5. Invasion

The garrison was in shambles. The bonfire in the heart of the garrison looked like it had been pitched sideways and licks of flame were rapidly spreading to the nearby buildings. The goblins in the engineering works were running all over the place, simultaneously trying to move the more _delicate_ objects. One of the panicked goblins was carrying what looked like a giant red bomb – complete with a lit fuse.

The tailoring emporium was faring better, though. Warra the Weaver had thankfully had the presence of mind of removing the cloth away from flickering flames. She was inspecting the ripped pieces of fabric, muttering and cursing, and were those _teeth marks_?

Peons were running in every direction, dragging buckets of water behind them, attempting to douse the flames. Mostly they missed the fire completely and just ended up drenching themselves and the unfortunate person they tripped over.

Olin Umberhide and Morketh Bladehowl had just returned from a mission and were standing dumbfounded at the northern entrance. The orc surveyed the pandemonium with a critical eye and then turned to his companion.

“What the _fel_ has happened here? Seriously, we’re gone for two days and the entire garrison goes up in flames?”

“Maybe there was an attack? I see Grimjaw just over there, let’s ask him,” the large tauren rumbled in answer.

Sergeant Grimjaw was standing at the top of the stairs leading up from the worst of the chaos, barking out orders at the disoriented peons. When he noticed the two men walking up to him, he sighed in relief.

“Thank goodness you’re back! Grab a bucket and try to put out the fires and help the civilians to safety,” he directed, authority flying out of his mouth. Or maybe that was just spit?

“What happened? Were we attacked?” Olin asked.

“Attacked? Yes, we were!” the orc cried. “A damned invasion, out of nowhere!”

“Who was it? The Shadowmoon clan? Ogres?” The small force stationed at Frostwall had been stirring up quite a lot of trouble in the past few months, making a few enemies in return.

Before Grimjaw could answer, a fel-green whirlwind swept by, tripping the orc and making him fall rather hard on his behind.

“Damned pups!” he bellowed, his face turning an alarming shade of scarlet. Next to him sat a tiny fel pup, using its hind leg to scratch behind its ear, tongue lolling happily. Before they could blink, two more had joined up, one a pale grey and the other a striking purple. Their razor sharp teeth found purchase in the sergeant’s boot, pulling it off and quickly running away with it, looking like a strangely colored rainbow.

A familiar looking troll with purple braids was chasing after them. Olin thought it was the woman who was in charge of the menagerie, though he couldn’t be sure. He rarely ventured to that part of the garrison.

“I just wish the commander would stop picking up strays,” Grimjaw was sitting on the ground, rubbing his temples with both hands and looking rather pathetic. He looked up as a cold nose poked his ungloved hand.

Snowpaw, the large frostwolf, had sat down next to him, holding a puppy by the scruff of its neck. The canine deposited the squirming pup in the sergeant’s lap, before chasing after the aptly named chaos pup that was currently dragging an axe in the snow, leaving disturbing bloody tracks.

Grimjaw stood up, wiping the snow off his trousers with one hand, as he was still clutching the puppy in the other.

“Here, lock this one up and help Snowpaw catch the others,” he handed over the furry creature to Morketh before stalking off, looking somewhat ridiculous with only one boot.

It wasn’t long before the frostwolf returned with another pup that he put down at the tauren’s feet, growling when it tried to escape. The puppy stopped immediately, rolling over to its back, allowing Olin to pick it up.

“We’re lucky to have you, Snowpaw,” he said. “Go catch the others?”

The grey canine barked sharply in reply before running off again.

“Good boy.”


	6. Raiders of the Lost Opportunity

Harrison Jones was excited. When the opportunity presented itself, he had eagerly jumped at the chance of travelling to Draenor. Just think about it – an entirely new world to explore (and blow up)! So, after convincing the pretty little mage working in the portal room in Stormwind – smooth talker as he was – it wasn’t very difficult to land himself in this savage new land.

He’d been even more excited when he realized that the commander in charge of the Horde forces was a very familiar troll shaman, one he had traversed the then-newly discovered Uldum with. From the small island of Ashran, Harrison had by no small feat managed to arrive at the Frostwall Garrison.

The explorer had asked around and been directed to the Town Hall, a big imposing building smack dab in the middle of everything. The green orc standing behind what looked like a planning table had informed him that the commander was not present at the moment, and would he please come back another day? Harrison Jones had huffed. He had not travelled across Draenor to be turned away like a common merchant. So he assumed a standing position next to the big orc. And he waited.

And waited. He amused himself by observing the people in the garrison, spotting several oddities during the day. A short, very lean orc, walking around selling a board game caught his attention several times. What kind of orc wears a flannel shirt and overalls? At one point he spotted a couple consisting of an orc and a blood elf, looking very friendly with each other, as they snuck off to a dark corner in the main building. Harrison suddenly became very curious, how did that even _work_?

After several hours, the troll in command finally walked in through the entrance. And went up to the green orc, ignoring Harrison completely. The troll barked out what the human suspected were orders, giving the pointing and nodding at the planning table. The explorer wasn’t very good at orcish after all. But he waited patiently, not wanting to interrupt what was surely very important – though nowhere near as important as his mission, but the shaman couldn’t know that yet.

When they seemed satisfied with their grunting and pointing, Harrison opened his mouth to speak. But the commander turned away from him to speak with someone else, a tauren this time. And hey, wouldn’t you know, standing in front of _another_ damned table.

The human was getting miffed. Though, he supposed, a human in the middle of a Horde garrison wasn’t bound to stand out much. Time to make some noise.

“Commander!”

The troll turned at the address and Harrison spied a glimmer of recognition across his features. Finally! Time to head to Skettis to find the amulet and then they would…

“Busy, sorry,” the troll answered before heading out again.

The orc next to him snickered at his dumbfounded expression. Harrison closed his mouth with a click.

“The commander is much too busy to engage in silly treasure hunting,” the orc said, somewhat condescendingly.

“Then I will wait until he has time for this _very serious_ order of business,” Harrison replied, matching his tone. He walked towards the alcove on his right, sitting down on one of the sturdy chairs.

The orc narrowed his eyes at him. “So you’ll just stay here until he comes back to talk to you?”

Harrison leaned back to put his feet on the table and raised his hands behind his head, cradling it.

“Yup.”

“ _Great_.”


	7. Dirty Jobs

 

Zenji giggled incessantly, like a little schoolgirl who had just spotted her crush and tried to appear casual along with her friends.

“Pleeaaase?” he begged, before erupting in giggles all over again, covering his teeth and tusks with one hand – something he had learned to do when he first came in contact with other races. Apparently they found the image of sharp teeth threatening.

Warmaster Zog was standing opposite him, his eyes covering his face – not because he too was giggling, but because he was exasperated. Why, oh why had he accepted this job again? He wasn’t the betting kind, but if he were, he’d place all his money on the fact that they never had to deal with this crap in the Alliance garrison.

“Commander, we have other people who are more than qualified for this… mission,” he said plainly, fixing a stern look on the troll bent double in front of him. A glorified babysitter, that’s what he was. And he’d never even wanted children in the first place.

“It’s her first week, mon! Gotta start at da bottom,” Zenji was able to wheeze out between bouts of laughing.

A few days ago, a wandering merchant had shown up. Zog had been suspicious of him from the beginning, as he was small and dressed strangely for an orc. He was selling some sort of game – a waste of time in Zog’s eyes, but many of the workers, and the commander obviously, had been enamored with it. Last night had been pretty rowdy, he’d heard. Apparently they had started playing for money and when they ran out they put missions and different tasks in the betting pool.

Unsurprisingly, the troll shaman had eventually lost most of his money and was given a whole list of unpleasant tasks. Instead of taking it like a man however, he was running around the garrison ordering unsuspecting workers and peons to do it for him, calling it delegating. He was down to the last job now, trying to write it off as a mission for one of his followers. The warmaster was doubtful, though. He didn’t want to be the one assigning this mission to _her_.

“Warmaster,” he heard a deep husky voice behind him that sent all sorts of tingles through his body. A quick glance to his left assured him that the commander had made himself scarce as soon as the woman had entered the building. Sometimes he really did wander if the troll’s true calling was stealth instead of elemental powers. He could disappear in the blink of an eye, leaving the other – less fortunate – party in very awkward situations.

Zog turned to face the speaker. She was all sorts of beautiful with her glossy black hair in twin ponytails, so dark it almost seemed blue, and her armor was tight in all the right places – though probably she favored it because of its utility and not its appearance – being a rogue after all. But the main attribute about Garona Halforcen that turned Warmaster Zog into a blushing adolescent was that he knew that she could handle herself in a fight. He was absolutely certain that she would disarm him and hold a knife to his throat before he could even reach for his axe. She probably wouldn’t even break a sweat doing it, either. And if that wasn’t what most orc males wanted in a woman, Zog didn’t know what more you could ask for.

“Ah, miss… Garona, er, I mean Halforcen…” he stuttered, feeling every bit of stupid as the idiot shaman that put him in this position to start with. He cleared his throat, determined to try again.

“I…” he started before trailing off. The silence was almost painful to his ears and he could see Shadow Hunter Ukambe in the corner, his back turned but shaking with silent laughter. Fortunately, the awkward silence was broken by Garona.

“The commander summoned me here. Apparently there’s a mission that requires my skills,” she said as a way of explaining her appearance. Since the Archmage had freed his would-be assassin’s mind, and they – Garona, the Archmage and Zenji – had infiltrated Bladefury’s Command, the rogue had joined the shaman’s forces at the garrison. She had been very accommodating so far, though most were scared shitless of her- with good reason, Zog thought. He’d heard that she was rather fearsome.

“Ah, yes. However, the commander decided that he will go on this mission himself – turned out to be more of a diplomatic errand – not that you aren’t diplomatic of course, it’s just that…” Zog had enough presence of mind to stop talking before he went off and dug himself an even deeper hole. Garona raised one eyebrow questioningly. The warmaster cleared his throat again.

“I have no more missions for the time being, but you’re welcome to return tomorrow,” he was able to say fluently, without any stuttering or awkwardness. Mentally patting himself on the back he was even able to give the rogue a slight smile.

“Alright, I will see you tomorrow then. Good day,” Garona dismissed herself.

Zog stared at her retreating back, dumbfounded. Had he even been so smooth as to invite her back tomorrow? _All kneel before Zog_ , he thought ecstatically, but wisely refraining from doing a happy dance in the middle of the Town Hall as he could sense Ukambe and the stupid adventuring human staring at him.

“Dat’s very nice and all, Warmastah, but who will do da mission, den?” the Shadow Hunter asked. “Ah don’t t’ink da Commandah will do it himself.”

The orc closed his eyes and steeled himself, inhaling deeply.

“I’ll do it,” he said gruffly, grabbing a pair of leather gloves lying on the bench – he sincerely hoped they belonged to the commander – before heading out to clean the latrines, ignoring the sniggering around him.

The things he did for love.


	8. For Science!

”So, how hot do ya think it is?” Blixthraz asked his green-skinned companion.

“At least 100 000 degrees Kraklenheit,” Pozzlow replied, weighing on his toes in front of the hot lava pouring down from the side of the mountain, yelping when the other goblin smacked the back of his head.

“Idiot! No one uses Kraklenheits anymore!”

Pozzlow rubbed his head sullenly, backing up a few steps in case Blixthraz decided to push him into the lava – as his newly discovered violent tendencies suggested – before replying.

“How hot would _you_ say it is then?”

Blixthraz pondered this a few seconds, rubbing the tiny strip of hair on his chin. It was very stylish, if he may say so himself. “Very.”

Pozzlow resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He was an engineer and that meant he liked data. Numbers, digits, measurements – they all made his palms itch and his brain tingle in a delightful way. ‘Very’ was not a good enough approximation. Suddenly, a yellow-teethed grin appeared on his face and he started rubbing his hands together unconsciously, then stopping when he noticed it. Garbra had told him not to do that. ‘It intimidates people’ she had said.

“I have an idea! Let us test it!”

“Test it? Build a thermometer you mean?” Blixthraz sounded doubtful, that lazy moron.

Pozzlow huffed before replying.

“It would take weeks to build a functioning thermometer that could measure this incredible heat.” Not to mention that most of those weeks would be spent arguing about which unit they would use. “No, my idea is much simpler than that,” he smirked.

* * *

Olin Umberhide always woke up earlier than the others in the garrison. The white snow and red lava were a stark contrast to the grassy plains of Mulgore, where he’d been born. Travelling around the world had allowed him to see many different environments and meet many different people, but it was in Mulgore his heart belonged and he felt that waking up early to greet the sun as it rose strengthened his bond with the Earthmother.

This day was special though, for when he returned to the garrison it was still early. Despite this, a mob of people were gathered in front of the command board behind the great bonfire. Curious, he walked up to them, using his towering height to peer over the heads of the others in front of him. There was a new sign on the board, reading in bold letters:

**POOL PARTY**

**WHERE: Behind the herb garden**

**WHEN: Tonight**

**WHY: ~~FOR SCIENCE!~~ To celebrate our victories against the Iron Horde**

**BYOB**

 

The rest of the sign was covered in strange scribbles that looked like mathematical equations and schematics used by the goblins in engineering. The tauren had rarely been to social events, especially not the ones that involved swimming, but judging from the others’ reactions it was definitely something to look forward to.

“Great idea! We _so_ need a break!”

“Oh thank the Sunwell, most people here have gone far too long without bathing!”

“Leorajh not like to swim. Too wet,” the fearsome-looking saberon said gently.

“Oh, don’t worry sweetie. I’ll help you,” a female goblin grinned cheekily, ogling his bulging arms and mostly naked chest. Then she turned to Olin and winked exaggeratedly before walking away towards the War Mill. The tauren stood speechless a few seconds, staring after her. Maybe pool parties weren’t really his thing after all, he thought nervously.

* * *

The party turned out to be a hit. The peons had sharpened large wooden spikes, piercing through slabs of meat and erecting them over the lava, allowing it to cook. Drix Bassbolter was in charge of the music, clutching his jukebox protectively. People kept coming up to him asking him to play various songs and his only reply was a rather rude gesture, indicating that they put their music roll someplace where the sun doesn’t shine.

Olin had joined up at the festivities, on the commander’s insistence, though he kept a wide berth from the female goblin who had flirted with him earlier. He spotted her several times, clutching a mug of ale in one hand and someone’s rear end in the other. Even Zenji were subjected to her forceful admirations every once in a while.

Zenji, never one to turn down fun, had brought enough alcohol to provide hangovers to the most experienced of drinkers. He was currently trying to arrange a dance-off between an overjoyed Ulna and a reluctant Aeda. Olin was not surprised to see the warlock eventually pushing the troll in the water. He came up coughing and sputtering and did not admit defeat until Rokash and Mulverick intervened.

A peon came up to Olin, offering him a piece of meat which the tauren accepted graciously. Swimming, it turned out, did wonders for one’s appetite. The first few bites were wonderful, the meat had a smoky flavor and a stringy texture, leading the warrior to believe it was clefthoof meat. As he kept chewing though, something felt odd. The pieces kept growing in his mouth and his stomach turned, making embarrassing noises. Feeling very uncomfortable, he looked up and noticed several others who didn’t look too great either. His stomach suddenly did a violent twist and he realized he was going to be sick.

He stood quickly, making his way towards the outhouse as discreetly as he could, and then started running when several others began heading in the same direction. The gauntlet was suddenly interrupted by someone large and strong pushing through the crowd, eyes fixed at the single outhouse, screaming at the top of his lungs:

“I’m da Commander! I go first!”

* * *

The violent commotion was casually observed by two goblins standing over by the herb garden, both with displeased frowns on their faces.

“Apparently, the lava is not even hot enough to kill the two bacterial cultures of _Clostridium Kezaniae_ I put in earlier,” Pozzlow noted.

“Then it’s irrelevant to use it in bomb making,” Blixthraz sighed. “But it was a good idea, though.”

“Yeah! Aren’t you glad we didn’t spend all that time making a thermometer when it turned out it was useless?” Pozzlow’s mood seemed to be improving. He turned around to the half-eaten plates of food haphazardly thrown by people making their sprint towards relief.

“Hey, you want to share a clefthoof steak?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, this takes place after Dirty Jobs. I would never be that mean to poor Zog ;)


	9. Mission Completed

Zenji was pacing. Warmaster Zog had already thrown him out of the Town hall, complaining that he was destroying the already threadbare carpet. Zenji scoffed – what kind of warrior cared so deeply about carpets, anyway? Instead, the troll was pacing outside the stables. Walk ten steps – hit the wall, turn and walk ten steps – hit the statue, turn. And so it went on and on. He was anxiously waiting for three of his followers to return from the Blackrock Foundry. Having cleared most of the place with a few allies, Zenji had sent Olin Umberhide, Ulna Thresher and Kaz the Shrieker to make sure it stayed that way. The trio was set to return yesterday though, and there was yet a trace to be seen. Two scouts had been sent out and the commander stayed behind, pacing.

Inside the stables, the talbuk was getting skittish by his mood and trampled nervously every time he passed it. Stupid creature, he thought. Sage Paluna had said that this particular breed of talbuk, silverpelts, were much more intelligent and courageous than the average talbuk, making it perfect for riding in battle. The troll looked at the creature as he passed it once more and it cried softly, swishing its tail. If he were to ride that in battle, he would most certainly die as it bucked him off and trampled him to death with its hooves. He suddenly missed Korra, who remained in Durotar. The shaman hadn’t had the heart to bring the raptor to this cold land, knowing she would be more than miserable and would quite possibly run away, never to be seen again.

Walk ten steps – wall, turn and walk ten steps – statue. Before turning he gazed at the grand monument in his likeness. Zog had sneered at Zenji’s request to erect a giant statue of himself in the middle of the garrison, claiming there was such a thing as humility, whatever that meant. Zenji had assured the orc that he wouldn’t be humiliated by the statue and Zog had rolled his eyes before walking away, mumbling to himself.

Turn, walk ten steps – wall, turn, walk, statue, turn, walk, feet, turn, walk. Feet? Zenji quickly flipped around and was greeted by the sight of the three people whose return he’d been expecting. They looked a little worse for wear, but smiling. Well, the warrior and priest were – and Kaz’s skull mask was grinning creepily.

“You’re back!” the troll exclaimed and threw his arms around the Forsaken woman, almost knocking her to her knees with the force of his embrace. Olin noticed and put a supporting hand on her back.

“Reporting in, Commander,” he said.

“What happened, mon? Ah was worried.”

“We ran into some trouble with some Thunderlord Orcs as we passed Grom’gar. Nothing we couldn’t handle,” the tauren explained.

“I got a new skull!” Kaz cried, gleefully. She pointed to the pale, unpainted cranium that adorned her face.

“Dat’s… nice, Kaz. Very, er, stylish,” the troll said, unsure of the procedure when a female had acquired a new face from one of her dead enemies. He’d learned the hard way that you should always compliment a woman when she has bought new things and when she asks if she looks fat, you deny it, _without hesitation_. The orc shaman cackled somewhat maniacally and Zenji felt himself take a step back.

“Da Foundry, den? How did it go?” he asked Olin, who seemed the most sane person at the moment.

“A few stragglers, but not anymore. We cleared the place.”

“And we got you a present!” Ulna exclaimed happily. She dumped her heavy pack on the ground and started rifle through its contents. She squealed, evidently having found what she was looking for. She held it out for Zenji to see.

He took the boots from her, somewhat confused. They were made of mail and evidently of a good quality. Perhaps enchanted as well? Yes, _indeed_ , the shaman thought. Enchanted to increase run speed. Nifty. He looked up to see the priestess who was, for a lack of a better word, looking at him apprehensively.

“Dey’re nice. Really nice, but…” Zenji could see her grin fading slightly with his words and he hurried to finish so as not to hurt her feelings. “But Ah don’t wear boots, mon.” Even if he did, there was no way he would be able to fit his feet in that tiny orc-sized footwear.

“Oh. I forgot,” Ulna said, embarrassed. She gestured to her face, most likely to indicate her lack of eyesight. The shaman rolled his eyes, having heard that excuse before. Curiously enough, she never seemed to have any problems finding her target when fighting, he thought suspiciously.

“Good job wit’ da mission! Now, go to da barracks, ya earned ya rest,” he dismissed the trio. They each gave him a nod before turning and heading in the direction of the barracks, where food and rest were waiting for them. He waited until they were out of earshot before summoning one of the guards to him.

“Commander?” the orc said after saluting him.

“Ah’m going ta Ashran for a while. Need ta go to da Auction House. Will ya tell Rokhan for me?”

The orc nodded, saluted him once again and strode off. Zenji sighed. Hopefully he could sell the boots for a nice sum of money. Ever since discovering the game of Hearthstone, the shaman had been more or less broke.

* * *

“You think he’s onto us?” Olin threw a gaze over his shoulder to assure himself that the commander weren’t listening.

“No, he’s too nice to ever think anything negative about us,” Ulna replied. “But really, Kaz, it was a stroke of genius to take a shortcut through Grom’gar to get some loot. I think the commander would have been disappointed if we returned empty-handed.” The orc shaman only giggled in reply.

“And good thing you were able to enchant it as well, Ulna. Made it seem more valuable,” the tauren said.

“Thank the Light for gullible trolls,” Ulna exclaimed to the others’ amusement. The trio were still giggling as they entered the barracks, mission complete for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t you just hate it when you send out your followers and expect them to come back with some epic loot and then it’s just some random crap? Like, I have a legendary ring, why would I want to exchange it for this PoS? >_<


	10. Checking Out the Competition

Zangarra was a miserable place, Zog thought. It was bleak, dreary and soaking wet. He’d almost drowned once, when he was younger. This was similar. Every time he took a breath, his lungs protested against the damp air – expecting each breath to be his last. It was enough to induce panic into lesser beings, but the orc had been through much, much worse. Why the Archmage had chosen to set up his base here, Zog could not fathom. The human had said something about ley lines and then initiated a heavy monologue that no one sane would ever understand. _Mages_ , the warrior scoffed.

Their ships had finally – after several weeks of hunting and to a heavy cost – acquired the Sea Chart that the Archmage had so desperately wanted. When Zenji was preparing to give it to Khadgar, Zog had volunteered himself to come along, feeling very sick and tired of the garrison. Sure, he was older now, but it felt wrong to stay safe behind walls while sending out others to do his bidding. As such, the troll shaman was now inside the tower, speaking to Khadgar about his ring, while Zog waited outside, watching two young mages battle each other. He heard their taunting and jeering and shook his head; magic was a great tool, healing and protection spells had saved his life more than once, but there was nothing more satisfying than cleaving your opponent in two with a giant axe.

“Commander Taylor!” the night elf Warden beside him suddenly exclaimed.

Zog looked up. A person clad in shining plate armor with a white cloak had appeared through the portal and was walking briskly towards the tower. Was this the Alliance’s Commander? The person took off their helmet and Zog narrowed his eyes. It was a female human, presumably a paladin, the orc thought while resisting the urge to roll his eyes. How predictably boring.

“Cordana!” The human smiled. “Is the Archmage available?”

“Not at the moment, no,” the Warden replied with a surly glare at Zog. He raised his eyebrows in response and grinned, showing off his tusks. The night elf probably didn’t realize he could understand them – most members of the Alliance saw orcs as primitive beings, barely capable of speech. The warmaster, however, had spent some time in Ironforge and understood and spoke Common perfectly, as was expected of an ambassador. He didn’t tell the women that of course, but settled down to eavesdrop on their conversation, pretending to watch the mages battle.

As they spoke, a dwarf appeared through the portal. He was less graceful than the paladin had been and staggered up to the two women, glaring at the human. He looked tired and probably would have been panting heavily, had he not been undead.

“Nice of you to join us, Delvar,” the paladin said somewhat icily.

“Thassarian’s unholy balls, girl! Didn’t you hear me shouting at you to slow down?” the death knight cried. “I swear, I don’t know how you run so fast in all that armor!”

Zog was interested to note that the death knight did not have the typical accented Common that dwarves usually possessed. It must be because he’s dead, he thought.

“Most paladins I know are fast runners,” Cordana mused.

“I can only hope that most paladins aren’t as stupid as this one,” Delvar said grumpily. “She charges in to battle without thought and when she realizes that there are too many enemies, she pops Divine Shield and runs away.” He finished with a glare.

The paladin looked embarrassed. “That was just once! And I apologized for leaving you behind. Heat of the moment and all,” she mumbled.

Zog started snickering at this, but cleverly disguised it as a cough when the night elf glanced at him curiously. Luckily he was saved from questioning when the doors of the tower opened and Khadgar walked out with Zenji. The paladin’s demeanor changed instantly and she smiled at the Archmage.

“Hello Khadgar,” she said almost shyly, reaching up to twirl a lock of dark blonde hair around her finger. The effect was somewhat ruined when some of the strands caught in her gauntlet and she grimaced at the pain. Behind her, Zog could see the dwarf cover his face with one of his hands. Now that was an expression he recognized, having used it several times in connection with his own commander.

The Archmage did not seem to notice, however. “Hello Mya, nice to see you again. Do you have something for me?” he asked pleasantly.

“You bet she does,” the death knight whispered audibly. He was rewarded with a kick to the shin by the blushing human.

“I have acquired some of those books you spoke of,” she said carefully, looking curiously at Zenji who seemed just as interested in her as she was in him. The troll descended the stairs, drawing himself up to his true height. The effect was startling to the human, as he now towered a good two feet over her, and she took a careful step to the side as he passed her. Zenji, true to himself, grinned menacingly and winked at her before walking over to where Zog stood. She glared at his back.

Khadgar stood and watched the exchange between the two commanders with an amused expression. He cleared his throat and the human, Mya, whipped her head back to face him. She blushed when she caught his stare and started fiddling with her tabard.

As the Alliance members entered the tower with Khadgar, Zenji seemed to shrink as he adopted his usual crouch, rubbing his back with a wince.

“Dat’s da Alliance Commander? She seems… young,” he said.

Zog smiled. “That’s just because we’re two old farts, Zenji.”

“Speak for ya’self, grandpa.”

“I’m not the one with a bad back,” he said pointedly, smirking at the troll’s embarrassed expression as he quickly ceased massaging his lower back

They walked together to the portal that would take them to their mounts on the other side of the ravine, throwing insults at each other. Zog smiled; when compared to the Alliance commander, maybe the stupid troll shaman was the better choice after all.


	11. The Reason for the Season

”What is the meaning of this?!” Sergeant Grimjaw’s voice was demanding and pierced the still air at the Frostwall Garrison. He had exited the barracks, fully prepared to deal with another day of work, when his senses were assaulted with garish lights in every imaginable color, wreaths and a lot more trees than had been in the garrison when he went to bed yesterday. Seriously, did it even _exist_ that many trees in Frostfire Ridge?

No one volunteered any information, so he started the trek up to Town Hall; Zog would have some answers, he knew. Grimjaw passed the two guards guarding the entrance and nodded absentmindedly at them. Two steps later, he stopped abruptly and turned back to actually look at them.

“What the hell are you two wearing?”

The orc seemed slightly embarrassed and started picking at the fuzzy green sweater he was wearing. The troll, wearing an equally green and fuzzy hat, grinned and replied; not seeming the least uncomfortable.

“We were told ta wear dis. So just followin’ orders, Sarge.”

“Whose orders?” The sergeant narrowed his eyes. He had his suspicions, of course and didn’t wait for the axe-thrower’s reply before storming off in to the Town Hall.

The large circular room did not seem much better off than the rest of the garrison, as it too was decorated with strings of colorful baubles and leafy wreaths. As the Warmaster caught the eyes of his visitor, Grimjaw could swear his cheeks colored pink, but he recovered too quickly for anyone to really notice.

“Sergeant? Is something the matter?” Zog spoke with his usual authority, no trace of any lingering uncomfortableness. The sergeant realized he’d only ever come in here before to give warnings on approaching invasions.

“Yes, something is the matter! When I went to bed yesterday, everything was normal and today it looks like Metzen the reindeer threw up all over the place! There is even a mistletoe hanging above your head for Thrall’s sake!”

This time, the Warmaster did blush as he glanced up at the offending twig. Grimjaw rolled his eyes and interrupted the other orc’s stuttered explanation.

“Where is the Commander? I can only assume he is behind this ridiculousness,” he snarled.

Zog seemed to catch himself at this insubordination. “Watch your accusations Sergeant,” he said coldly before continuing: “The Commander is in Tanaan Jungle and we are not expecting him back anytime soon. Someone else arranged the decorations.”

Grimjaw felt properly chastised, it would do no good to forget his rank. Besides, while the troll had some unorthodox ideas, he was wholly competent. When the words of the Warmaster’s last statement hit him, he looked up.

“But… Then, who?”

The sergeant had barely finished the question when someone walked in, arms so full of decorations he could not discern the person’s identity until they dropped their heavy burden on one of the tables. The undead priestess brushed the pine needles off her robe and made her way over to the two orcs, her smile attentive.

“It is close to finished, Warmaster. Yala is preparing the last of the meat pies as we speak,” Ulna reported to Zog. “I’m so happy you agreed to my idea!”

“You’re behind this?” Grimjaw felt confused and slightly gleeful that the one responsible was lower rank – no need to hold back. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

The Forsaken turned here eyeless stare on him, her body tensing at his words. She balled her tiny fists and widened her stance.

“Did you know that they don’t celebrate the Feast of Winter Veil here on Draenor?” she asked him.

In fact, the Sergeant didn’t know that, but he could easily have figured it out if he’d thought about it – which he hadn’t. Winter Veil had originated from the Tauren as a celebration of the World’s rebirth, and as there were no Tauren in Draenor – logical thinking would conclude that the natives of Draenor did not celebrate it.

“I spoke to Orac yesterday – you know, one of the children in Wor’Gol. He and his friends had never heard of this tradition, and the more I told them, the more excited they became. And then I thought – why not show them instead?” she spread her arms at this last statement, indicating the colorful garlands and ribbons.

Grimjaw still did not see the need to turn the garrison into a garish mismatch of baubles. “But…” he started, but was interrupted by Zog.

“These children are living in a war, Sergeant. A war _we_ are waging on _their_ land. They deserve whatever happiness and fun they can have.”

And suddenly Grimjaw understood. Shame temporarily clutched his heart with cold fingers as he remembered that they were actually guests here on Draenor – something he’d forgotten in the past year they’d been stationed here. Children were precious – to every race – and should never have to experience pain or grief.

“How can I help?” he looked at Ulna, who started to grin.

“You can help me wrap the presents! I’m very good at it, but Morketh kept complaining that the colors clash. As if he would know anything about that.”

The orc started to follow the priestess out of the Town Hall, but stopped before exiting to let Garona enter. Suddenly gripped with evil mirth, he turned back to Zog with a smirk that was somewhat obscured by his helmet.

“Warmaster, maybe you should be less obvious with the whole mistletoe-thing.”

The orc’s horrified glare was rewarding enough to endure the punishment that surely would follow his gleeful insubordination.


	12. Juggling Geese

The ink flowed over the parchment, each sweep of his brush leaving the surface with cerulean swirls. He put away his brush, and gently lifted the delicate piece of paper onto the low desk where the ink would be allowed to dry. Benjamin Gibb lifted his hands behind his head and straightened his spine with a satisfying crunch. One more to go. He was very proud of his current work. His Commander had requested a moon deck which would probably strengthen his spells or something – Benjamin wasn’t quite clear on the subject; himself relying on his trusted axe. But the Commander had asked and the Commander would receive.

The Forsaken pulled out another piece of parchment, intent on completing the deck before sunrise. He dipped his brush in the inkwell and put it to the paper. Suddenly, the ground started shaking and the tremors caused his normally straight and neat penmanship to transform into squiggly, useless lines.

_Shit._

The trembling only became worse, and the Death Knight panicked for half a second – had the volcano next to the base finally erupted (something he’d complained about ever since he first laid eyes on the garrison) or were they under attack? He pushed away from his workstation and grabbed his axe before moving towards the door. He never understood the fools that walked around unarmed – in war, you are not safe _anywhere_.

It was dark outside, and Benjamin could see no panicking peons running around, so they were probably not under attack then. The vibrations stopped and a large shadow fell over him, obscuring the dim light from Draenor’s large moon. Looking up, he found himself staring at a tree. A tree with a face. Well, he’d served under the Lich King, so he’d certainly seen stranger things than that, but still.

“Good evening,” it rumbled at him.

And now the tree _talked_ \- addressing him more politely than most of the brainless orcs around here did. He gripped his weapon a little tighter before replying. “Evening,”

“It is a nice night for a walk, yes?”

Benjamin’s head was swimming while trying to work out what the tree was doing here in the Frostwall Garrison. He knew the Commander was no stranger to picking up strays, but there was a big difference between a demon pup and a talking tree. Actually, now that he considered it, he preferred the tree.

“Who are you?” the Forsaken finally asked, in a tone that did not quite match the tree’s politeness.

“I am Birchus. I travelled here from Gorgrond, where I met your Commander,” the tree replied.

So, a stray then. Benjamin relaxed marginally.

“He said you could stay here?”

He was met with silence. Birchus seemed to ponder the question and did not speak for a few minutes.

“You seem fond of your weapon,” Birchus noted, nodding towards the axe the Death Knight was clutching. “Everyone utilizes sharp weapons nowadays. It is enough to make a tree nervous.”

Benjamin laughed, a small sound that would have passed as a breath had he been alive. “No need to worry. It just doesn’t feel right without her, she’s never too far away from me.”

“Her?” Birchus made a face that would probably pass as ‘surprised’ or ‘amused’. Though he didn’t know, the expression could mean ‘angry’ for all Benjamin knew. The Forsaken lifted the axe to look at it reverently.

 “I call her Vera,” he replied, stroking the grip slightly.

“A lovely name,” Birchus nodded thoughtfully. “I named all the birds who stayed with me. My favorite was a small orange bird I named Pepe, who was born in a nest on my crown. I do wonder what happened to that little chick.”

As the tree stared wistfully at the horizon, Benjamin gently cleared his throat to regain his attention.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to your walk. But could you do it somewhere else? I’m working on a very delicate subject and your heavy steps kind of, er, mess it up,” he told the tree.

Birchus nodded. “My apologies. Have a nice night,” he finished before walking off towards the herb garden, the tremors in the ground lessening with the increasing distance.

Benjamin walked inside the Scribe’s Quarters, leaving Vera within gripping distance as he sat down, intent on finishing the Commander’s deck. He could not stop thinking about conversation he’d just had, however. The Forsaken had only stayed at the garrison for a month or so, but during that time he’d met most of the people who worked there.

And who would’ve thought that a _tree_ would be the most normal of them all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever since realizing that Benjamin Gibb’s profession is Inscription, I can’t help but to imagine him sitting and writing poetry and making silly doodles all day. He’s a real softie behind all that badass exterior. And seriously Birchus, no one said you could stay.


	13. Wrecked

They weren’t coming back. The approximated two day duration of the mission had stretched longer and longer, and now – after more than two weeks – it was time to face the facts. Zenji had started to avoid any- and everyone at the garrison, preferring to spend time alone – away from the dismayed expressions.

After running Gul’dan’s flagship aground, he’d been very anxious to get his hands on that damned chart. Sending three ships seemed quite risky, though, so he’d asked one of the mages in Zangarra for assistance. The mage had considered the all the risks, advantages and disadvantages, before finally calculating the probability of the mission being a success. Ninety-one percent had seemed a lot, Zenji had thought, and it had been echoed by Kronk Rustspark, his naval equipment specialist.

Three ships had sailed away in the sunset, accompanied by the cheers of the entire Frostwall Garrison – everyone was relieved to be one step closer to finally taking down Gul’dan. As the days went, the atmosphere became tense and to see someone glancing curiously out to the sea, before adapting a pained expression was not an uncommon occurrence.

Zenji knew that many of the crew of the missing ships had friends and family among his garrison workers and he felt he could no longer look them in the eyes. He’d taken refuge and was currently sitting on a flat rock to the side of the path leading down to the shipyard when he heard footsteps crunching in the snow behind him. He didn’t turn around though, but felt someone sitting down next to him on the cliff.

“You okay, commander?”

The troll glanced at the person next to him, a female orc from the Frostwolf clan. He ransacked his brain for a name – Aska something? He knew for a fact, though, that both her husband and sister had been on one of the missing ships. His shoulders slumped with the knowledge.

“Not really,” he answered.

They were quiet for a while, before the orc spoke up again.

“You know, many think that orcs only exist for one reason. That we thrive on blood and death and war. But it’s not true. I, myself, enjoy a good fight or hunt, but there is nothing that makes me happier than coming home to my family. _They_ are the reason _I_ exist.”

“Ah’m sorry,” Zenji said quietly. He’d taken her family away from her in his stupid pride.

“You misunderstand,” she interrupted before he could explain himself. “When the Frostwolves refused to join the Iron Horde, we became targets. Fighting, for no other reason than fighting itself, is not a worthy cause. Fighting, because you want to do the right thing, to protect what you love; now that is an admirable reason!”

“That is why we agreed to join you – at least my husband and I. To protect what we hold dear. To fight alongside someone who is just as determined as us – someone like you, commander,” she finished.

For the first time, Zenji lifted his head and looked into her eyes, seeing nothing but sincerity and empathy; not the blame and scorn he’d expected.

“Yah don’t blame me?” he asked, his voice full of disbelief.

“No. We knew the risks going into this, everyone did. But sitting down, waiting for death has never been our style. We trust you commander. None of us would be here if we didn’t.” She rose from the cliff and gripped his shoulder in a comforting gesture, before walking away towards the garrison, leaving the shaman once again with his own thoughts – though considerably less dark than they’d been when she first sat down.


	14. Strike Three

Gorsol wasn’t sure how it had happened; but once he reached the mine that morning he suddenly found himself surrounded by tiny, very angry female goblins. A quick glance down assured him that they were the miners who were _supposed_ to be underground working at this hour. He, himself, started his day a few hours later than them – being foreman had its perks, after all. The miners were all talking at once, their shrill voices a cacophony of noise that was starting to grate on his nerves.

“Enough!” he bellowed, and a quiet hush fell over the gathering.

“You!” he pointed to one of the goblins. “Tell me what the problem is, and why the hell you aren’t working!”

The goblin in question narrowed her eyes at his tone. She took off her helmet and flipped her brown hair over hair shoulder in an irritated gesture.

“The problem, foreman, is that we can’t do our jobs! A certain _someone_ keeps butting in, disrupting the crew!” she told him harshly.

Gorsol was dumbstruck for a few seconds – surely he didn’t disturb the miners _that_ much? He just went a few rounds every shift, pointing out their errors. He knew the goblins didn’t care for it, but he was the foreman after all, they weren’t supposed to like him!

“Who?” It had to be someone else than him!

Before the miner could answer, however, a familiar troll shaman walked by.  He grabbed one of the mining picks that were left at the entrance, nodded in greeting at the crowd outside, and headed down into the dark underground. His off-key whistling echoed off the walls.

“Oh,” was all Gorsol could say.

The miners started shouting again, all at the same time.

“That was my mining pick he took! I bought that really cheap!”

“Yesterday, he stole my coffee! He drank five entire cups before sprinting away!”

“He keeps rifling through our mining carts, looking for crap!”

“ _He isn’t even a miner by trade!_ ”

“Settle down, all of you.” Gorsol raised his hands in a calming gesture and the chattering voices trailed off, one by one.

“Will you talk to him?” one goblin – the one he’d demanded answers from in the first place – asked.

The foreman nodded slowly. Truth to be told, he was quite intimidated by the commander and preferred not to get in his way. The troll had faced off with both Onyxia and Deathwing, after all. Hell, he’d even fought Garrosh Hellscream and lived to tell the tale.

“I’ll, uh, talk to Warmaster Zog. He’ll know what to do.”


	15. Follow the Leader

In the vast, snowy landscape, the clinking and hammering of tools was a comforting sound. Zenji sat on a raised outlook, surveying the progress of the garrison. _His_ garrison. Apparently he was a commander now; expected to gather an army and raise hell against the Iron Horde. He’d been flattered and more than a little moved by the suggestion, but he was no leader. For as long as he could remember, he’d been a soldier and an adventurer. Making his way through Azeroth, he’d done what people had asked of him – following orders like any good soldier.

He’d fought against demons, ghosts, kings and dragons. But he’d never sent other people out to do his bidding, to die in his stead. He wasn’t sure if he could. He felt out of his element; a lone wolf, forced to gather a pack.

“Planning where to set up your perimeters, Commander?” an amused voice came from behind him.

The shaman sighed. Sometimes he wondered if the orc had some kind of alert that went off when people began to doubt themselves. Like one of those big red flashing lights the goblins were so fond of.

“Thrall,” he greeted, not unkindly.

“Hiding your alcohol will do you no good,” the orc chided, grabbing the poorly-concealed bottle and taking a sip. He grimaced at the taste. “How can you drink this… this, goblin rocket-fuel?”

The troll leaned over to pry the bottle from his hand. “It be not for tastin’, mon. It’s for gettin’ yah drunk.” He made his point by swallowing a big gulp.

The former leader of the Horde was a friend, a mentor, but above all he was a role model. Captivated with the incredible displays of power, the young troll had sought out to become a shaman. Thrall had been the one who had suggested he’d seek guidance from the Earthen Ring.

“These people are strong, brave and loyal. They will follow you,” Thrall said, sweeping his hand as to indicate the level of activity in front of them. “And I have no doubt you will come across many more in your travels.”

“Maybeh, but do dey have a sense of life instead of jus’ duty?” Zenji grinned. “Ah plan ta find out.”

Thrall caught sight of the colorful bundle lying in the snow next to the troll and rolled his eyes. “This isn’t about the hat, is it?”

“Maybeh.”

The troll had years of practice in becoming a powerful shaman and was a distinguished vessel of the Spirits, but apparently you can’t take the troll out of the shaman.

“De ones who dance will be mah superior officers,” Zenji swallowed another mouthful of the foul tasting liquid before standing. He grabbed the fruit hat and started to make his way down to the garrison.

“Well, you know what makes a good leader, don’t you?” Thrall asked. At the troll’s confused stare he continued. “A good leader doesn’t say ‘Go men, go’ but rather ‘Come men, follow me’.”

Zenji chuckled softly and put on the ridiculous hat.

“Dere’s a reason it’s called ‘follow da leader’, mon.”

 


	16. The Last Goodbye

”Well, dat’s it people. We destroyed all of dere bases, raided Hellfire Citadel and killed da demons,” Zenji spoke clearly. “Draenor be saved.” His dejected demeanor didn’t quite suit his mighty words. “Gul’dan got away, Ah know. Dat’s why Ah been called away, ta fight. Again,” he grimaced.

“Ah’m leaving soon as da portal’s ready. Some have decided ta stay behind, and Ah respect dat.” He thought of Aeda, who, along with Rokash, had declared they would live in Wor’var and help the natives rebuild their lives. The shaman smiled as he remembered the unlikely friendship that had blossomed between the two. He stilled hoped they eventually would be more than that, though.

Lantresor had chosen to stay behind as well. He wanted to restore the Burning Blade to its former glory, sans demonblood and war-mongering leaders. Ulna, Olin and many others were returning to Azeroth, though. New conquests to be found and glory to be had, and all that.

Footsteps crunched on the path behind him, and Zenji knew it was time.

“Commander, the portal is stable. Everyone is ready, sir,” Sergeant Grimjaw said.

“Ah’ll be dere. T’ank you Sarge.” The quartermaster nodded and left as quickly as he had arrived.

“Ah want’ya ta know, dat Ah’m proud of yah. All of yah. And dat Ah could never have done dis alone. So t’ank you.” His vision became blurry and he quickly blinked to make sure the tears wouldn’t fall.

“Goodbye, my friends,” he finished and stood quickly, walking down the frozen path that led to the main part of the garrison, leaving the silent grey tombstones behind him. Not looking back.

 


End file.
